


Love Drug

by fiacresgirl



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Summer of Olicity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiacresgirl/pseuds/fiacresgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver’s binding Felicity to him with sex. It’s something he thinks he can do. He’s a lot of work as a partner, he knows. She’s given up her life in Starling for him, gone through hell for him, and the baggage he carries with him is singed from the brimstone. But he can make her come over and over until she never wants to leave him. Ever. He’s got a talent for that. (Set in the summer of Porsches and sunsets.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Drug

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gnimaerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnimaerd/gifts).



> Please read the excellent _[Sex High](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4689107)_ by [gnimaerd](http://gnimaerd.tumblr.com/) before you read this. I wrote this as a companion piece in Oliver's point of view after another happy conversation with [lerayon](http://lerayon.tumblr.com/) about Oliver, Felicity, sex, motivation, and all that good stuff. 
> 
> As always, Dear Reader, please read responsibly.

The first few weeks on the road, Oliver and Felicity are barely on the road. It can’t be called traveling. They drive, sure, off into the sunset or into the sun depending on the time of day, but they aren’t driving anywhere. They’re changing the location of their continuous sex marathon. Sometimes they don’t even bother; they just stay put for days, shacked up in some third rate motel they pick because it’s on a strip next to a bunch of restaurants and maybe a little grocery. She climbs into his lap before he can even crack the car door open. Eventually they might make it to the registration office, he figures. He’s in no hurry.

An hour later he asks the clerk, “Got any vacancies?”

“Yeah. What do you need?” the clerk says, and Felicity gives a lurid little giggle behind him and slips her hand into the waist of his jeans, kind of smoothly sliding it down his ass. She’s perfected this move over time, sometimes varying the location of her hand, and Oliver has to work to keep his face straight and focus.

“King-sized bed?”

“Largest we’ve got is a queen.”

“We’ll take it,” he says, and she laughs as she mouths “Queen bed,” to him while the clerk turns away to run his credit card, and part of him wants to plant his face into his hand, and part of him wants to plant her ass in that Queen bed right then and start making those twinkling blue eyes glaze over with lust. He backs her over into a corner and tells her to be a good girl and wait, then watches as her pupils widen and black encroaches on blue.

 

>>\--->

 

They get very familiar with motel rooms. And the interior of the Porsche, as well as picnic tables, one rest-stop bathroom, and three or four scenic spots on one not-very-rigorous hiking trail that nevertheless completely tires them out.

They have a lot of sex. Oliver doesn’t really differentiate between the kinds of sex, although he knew she does. To her there’s making love, and there’s fucking. There’s fooling around and stress relief and comfort sex, but none of those define what he feels they’re doing. He’s claiming her, consuming her, and she’s devouring him: licking, sucking, biting. He memorizes what her mind responds to and her body craves. He’s pushing his way in, physically and emotionally, so he can know what Felicity Smoak feels like from the inside. He touches her everywhere.

“Do you like this?” he asks.

“Mmm, yes,” she says, panting. “Yeah, just like that.”

“What if I…” he adds a finger and makes the rhythm staccato instead. Rough and irregular.

“Oh! Oooh,” she says, “That’s better. Oh god, how did that get better? Why is that _better_?”

And he smiles in satisfaction and buries his face in the shallow basin of her abdomen. He hums against her pubic bone, and she reaches down to grab his hair and pull his face lower. He never grows tired of breathing in her scent.

She _loves_ the Arrow voice. He can’t believe how much she loves the Arrow voice. It’s like a shortcut straight to orgasm. If he uses it on her, if he grabs her by the hips and growls it low into her ear, the rest of him doesn’t even need to show up. She’s good. She’s done.

 

>>\--->

 

It’s a revelation for Oliver to see her feel and only feel, not think. There are times when he’s moving in her, hitting the rhythm just right, his hands pressing hers down above her head, and he wonders if she knows where she is or if she’s just gone, lost, her high pitched, out-of-key gasping a cry for help of sorts. She opens her eyes and sees him still there, above her, and she looks surprised. When her body is as taut as a bowstring and her left calf shakes so hard it rattles the mattress against the footboard, he knows it’s working.

“What are you doing to me?” she asks, out of breath as the springs on the bed rattle to a slow halt. “Is this a spell you’re casting? All I want to do is touch you.”

It is. He’s binding her to him with sex. It’s something he thinks he can do. He’s a lot of work as a partner, he knows. She’s given up her life in Starling for him, gone through hell for him, and the baggage he carries with him is singed from the brimstone. He’s lost most of his money and status. He can’t compete with certain other people intellectually. He doesn’t even know what she’s talking about half of the time. But he can make her come over and over until she never wants to leave him. Ever. He’s got a talent for that.

So he does.

As the first month turns into the second, however, he begins to notice something: “the two of us” turns into a “we,” and the panic that she might leave subsides a bit. The Nanda Parbat torture and the black pain of loss for Tommy, Sara, and his mother are still up in his mental attic skittering about like cockroaches, but her smile is there every morning too, and it quiets them some. He’s not ready to take them on directly - there are too many of them and they might overwhelm him now - but he begins to believe that it might be possible. Someday.

 

>>\--->

 

She wakes him up with her mouth, and he’s already coming before he fully aware of what’s happening. She grins, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and says, “Time to get up, sleepyhead. Today we’re going shopping.” She crawls up his body and kisses his mouth, and pulls his lower lip into hers.

“Shopping?” he manages to get out as his body turns itself right side in again.

“Mmhmm,” she says. “Shoe shopping.”

He’s had a hundred fantasies about her in the past forever, probably more, but Executive Assistant Felicity in high heels, either tall and spindly or those black patent leather mary janes she’s partial to, is high on the list. Very high.

“What about a pencil skirt?” he asks.

She smiles. “What about it? Is that something you’d like me to look into today, Mr. Queen?”

“I would,” he says, remembering their little script. “Please make it a priority, Ms. Smoak.”

And damn it if she doesn’t pull out a pad of paper. He tries to see what she’s writing, but she keeps the notepad close to her chest. “Will there be anything else --” and then she mouths the “Mr. Queen” with exaggerated movements. His name looks obscene on her lips.

Oh, yes. Yes, there will. “The glasses,” he says, “I’m gonna need you to keep them on this time. Is that clear?”

She gives him a saucy look and saunters off for the bathroom. Halfway through her shower he shows up to give her an impromptu employee review. Later he buys her four pairs of heels, that pencil skirt, and a blouse that buttons all the way up her throat.

That evening, as she’s splayed across his chest, she tells him that it’s important to dress for success, but his best look is shirtless.

“Just never wear a shirt again, okay? It covers up the pretty.” She flicks a finger across one of his nipples.

He’s never been called pretty before, but he’ll allow it. He’ll allow anything, who are they kidding? Still, he has to put up a bit of an argument, for show.

“I’m not pretty.”

“You are,” she says.

“Pretty’s for girls. I have a beard. I’m - well, I was - the Arrow.”

“I haven’t forgotten what a stud you are, don’t worry,” she says. “But your face is like a painting, and your body looks and feels like a statue. So. Much. Pretty.” Then she puts her index finger over his mouth. “Shh. Statues don’t talk. It spoils the effect.”

His hands go to her waist - the waist they can easily span, and he digs his fingers into her ticklish spots. “Take it back!” he says.

“I won’t!”

“I have ways of making you talk,” he says and tickles her until she’s doubled over and squealing.

“Name, rank, serial number!” she yells. And when he lets up she tackles him like a monkey and they kiss until he almost passes out. He’s rather kiss her than breathe. He’d rather kiss her than do anything.

 

>>\--->

 

Two months in and in some small town down South he introduces her to John, the elderly man he’s spent a half an hour talking to while she had her hair touched up in the True Beauty salon. “This is my girlfriend, Felicity,” he says. She sticks her hand out and gives John a wide smile, and Oliver realizes that she is. She’s his. She’s his girlfriend. They’re together, and he doesn’t have to try so hard. Maybe he never did.

Because she loves him. Not his body, not his skills, not even his sexual prowess. Him.

She slips her hand in his and gives John a little finger wave good-bye. "Hey, sailor," she says, turning to Oliver and flinging her bright shiny new hair over her shoulder. "Come here often?"

"Nope," he says. "Just today."

She frowns at him. He's deviated from his lines. "What's so special about today?" she asks.

"I heard the most beautiful girl in the world was going to be here having her hair done at 11:30 AM," he says, "so I had to be here."

She crinkles her eyes at him and looks around exaggeratedly. "I don't see her," she says.

"That's funny," he says as he lifts her hand up to his mouth. "Because she's all I can see. Today and every day."

She tries to roll her eyes, but they're a little too shiny just now, and she gives up.

"Oliver," she says.

"I know," he says. "I'm a sap."

"You're my sap," Felicity says. “My man. My sailor. My --”

“If you say ‘My Dread Pirate Roberts’ again, it’s over,” he says.

“Dread Pirate Roberts,” she says and laughs, and he doesn’t care if she’s got a mask fetish or a thing for blond guys who come back from the dead, as long as he can watch the sun make more freckles on the bridge of her pert nose forever.

“Nope,” he says. He lifts her up by her tiny waist and twirls her around so her full skirt whirls around her.

“Yep,” she says.

He surrenders. White flag. It’s over.

It was over the moment she looked up at him in her cubicle three years ago. He just didn’t know it yet. But he does now. And thank God.

“Wanna get some lunch and then fool around in the cottage?” she asks.

“I do,” he says because there is no other choice to make.

**Author's Note:**

> For more notes on the conversation that lead to this fic, please see [Sex on the Brain: A Conversation about Oliver Queen’s Sexual Needs and Bangity-Bang-Bang-Bang!](http://lerayon.tumblr.com/post/128225358292/sex-on-the-brain-a-conversation-about-oliver) at lerayon's Tumblr.


End file.
